I make photographs that invite people to stay with an image longer than they expected.

I photograph what made me stop. The patterns in stone, the way light doubles itself on water, the color that only reveals itself if you look past the obvious one. The detail that was always there, waiting. I hope the images do the same thing. I hope they give you a reason to stay a little longer than you planned, and find that staying is worth it.

Some of my work begins in landscapes, not to describe them, but to distill what made me pause inside them. Iceland. Japan. The American desert. New England in the particular light of early morning or late winter. These are not documents of places. They are images of an experience, not a record of one.

In my architectural work, that pull comes from structure rather than location. Lines, repetitions, shifts in perspective, the geometry of a space made visible. Less about where you are, more about how you see. They ask the eye to keep moving, to find its own resolution.

Across all of it, I am not trying to hold a moment still. I am trying to create an experience of looking, one that unfolds slowly, and doesn't resolve all at once.

My work moves between three distinct bodies.

Cellular Memory: Patterns in Time began in the American desert, where I found geology that behaves like biology, stone that folds, breathes, and carries memory in its mineral layers. These formations had been shaping themselves for millions of years before I arrived. The work became a book.

Sacred Japan photographs traces of faith across shrines, pilgrimage paths, and torii gates. Worn steps, renewed ropes, landscapes that have been sacred for centuries, devotion made visible in the absence of those who practice it. The work is ongoing, and I intend to go back.

Architectural Abstracts is where structure becomes sensation. I'm drawn to what a building reveals when you move past the establishing shot, the repetitions, the geometry, the way light reorganizes a surface. The built environment presents itself as still. To my eye it never is. That way of seeing came from somewhere.

Photography found me on a Wednesday.

In Paris, there was no school on Wednesdays, so parents found things for children to do. One of those things, when I was seven, was a photography workshop with a young German photographer.

Something about the process, the waiting, the attention it demanded, felt immediately right. We moved to Montreal not long after. The lycée had a darkroom, and that's where the relationship with light became serious. Not light as subject but light as material, something you work with, wait for, learn to read.

At thirteen I bought my own camera, a Nikon FE2, with money saved from summer jobs. The same money went to plane tickets. National Geographic, Photo Magazine, Zoom. These were my first windows into what photography could do and where it could take you.

Then came fifteen years of raising a family, which is its own kind of long attention. I returned to the camera in 2017, in Somerville, where I still live and work. That was nine years ago, and the work has not stopped since. The camera has become an extension of my eye, which is, I think, the only place it was ever meant to be.

The eye took longer to develop than the practice.

The photographs are here. I hope you'll stay with them a little longer than you planned.